Our alarms went off at the unholy hour of 4:00 in the morning. Since we'd prepared everything the night before, it was a slightly faster process in getting out the door than usual. We hit the road at 4:40, when the sun had not yet risen, but its light was reflecting off of the cloud cover of the west.

Our first destination: the Beartooth Highway, which crosses the Beartooth Pass in the Beartooth Mountains near Beartooth Peak. (A lot of different names to take in, I know.) The road climbs up to a little over 10,900 feet above sea level, a full hundred feet above our previous land altitude record at Wolf Creek Pass two years ago. (For comparison, Billings is a little over 3,000 feet above sea level. Counting in the descent from Billings before getting to the mighty Beartooth, we easily climbed 8,000 miles.)

The sun rose behind us, and although its warming rays would have been appreciated, they were obstructed by the persistent clouds, which hung around the surrounding peaks in a thick fog. The verdant valley before us—part of our short pre-Beartooth descent—was set between epic curving cliffs that shot up straight through the clouds. Along the way, we saw gray jays, which are larger than blue jays and have no real color.

It was not long before we began the series of epic switchbacks that mark the northeastern terminus of the Beartooth Highway, and soon enough we came into the clouds. With no one around, we felt as if we had the mountain all to ourselves—and for a long time, I think that we actually did. The snowcapped peaks around us—ones that go up to over 12,000 feet—attempted on many occasions to pop their proverbial heads in through the cover.

We stopped a little over halfway up, at the first major pullout and overlook, yet still we could see little through the all-pervading clouds. The temperature—in the mid-40s when we left Billings—was now about 36º. Our attempt at getting to an overlook met with little success, and we doubled back to the car.

At this point, two chipmunks approached us. One was a little more feisty than the other one and was more willing to approach us. The little fellow was not truly domesticated, but clearly associated humanity with food. He ran up to me first, barely touched my right foot, and then ran back to the stone wall from whence he had come. I called this being "anointed" by the chipmunk, and lorded it over my parents as best I could before they, too, were anointed. My dad broke a small peanut butter cracker and gave it to them, partial to see what they'd do with it, but mainly to get them away from the car so we wouldn't run over them on the way out. (They ran off with it, then ate it.)

By this point, the sun was beginning to win its battle against the fog. More snowcapped peaks could be seen off around us, although we could not see the entire vista in a single glance. With the hope of seeing more at a higher altitude, we pressed on.

The sun gloriously broke through the remaining clouds as we finished the upward switchbacks. Now above the tree line, the small rolling hills on top of this plateau were covered in a thin layer of tundra. Snow banks were everywhere and the temperature hovered in the mid-30s—albeit with the added chill of a brisk, biting wind.

It was here that the road offered its promised views, for immense valleys opened up before us. The other peaks rose above a stark rocky landscape below. The tree line clung around the valley. The alpine lakes had not yet begun to thaw, and glaciers clung to the mountain faces. This view was all around us as we kept our ascent. Now we were steadily ascending with but a few remaining switchbacks at the peak of the mountain. We got out at many locations, but eventually it was too cold to do even that.

After we crested the final hill at nearly 11,000 feet above sea level, we had to descend. The switchbacks were more gentle than anticipated and offered stunning views of the flatter terrain below, between the Beartooth and the more distant mountains. We didn't descend as much as we ascended, which helped in the matter.

Alpine lakes and snow banks were everywhere, and about the only thing the Beartooth didn't have was large wildlife. Given our early start, we figured that we'd at least see some moose and perhaps a few bear. All we saw were the aforementioned chipmunks, a few squirrels, a bald eagle, and marmots, which look a bit like the unfortunate offspring of an otter and a pit bull.

Snow along the sides of the road showed how recently the Beartooth was plowed and opened for the season (it's not yet been a month): the frozen snow on the side of the road was cut straight through with a depth that reached up to five feet in places.

The Beartooth has every hallmark of a truly epic road and deserves Charles Kuralt's appellation of the "most beautiful road in America." My parents agreed that the road rivals or tops any drive in Alaska, but I gently reminded them that they had never driven the road to the Arctic Circle. (You always have to be working the angles.)

The rest of the Beartooth could not compete with the dramatic intensity that preceded it. After the descent, we went uphill again, winding our way back into Montana before coming back into Wyoming and the gates of Yellowstone National Park. It was not yet 9:00 and we had already experienced what would otherwise be a day's worth of sights and sounds—and we were just getting started.

The roads through Yellowstone make a rough figure-8. At the northeast was the western terminus of US-212 (the Beartooth), at the south the road that goes to Grand Teton and Jackson Hole, and to the west a brief cut through Montana before going to Idaho. Other entrances are located throughout this figure-8.

We worked our way down the eastern side of this figure-8. Immediately, we found that the scenery, while beautiful, was not on par with the extraordinary beauties of the Beartooth Highway; Yellowstone has rolling hills with the snowcapped peaks in the distance whereas the Beartooth was the opposite.

This wasn't to say that we didn't enjoy ourselves as we looped in a J-shape around the park, for what the Beartooth lacked in wildlife was more than made up for in Yellowstone. We were almost immediately greeted by deer, pronghorn, wolf, and bear. Further in, the landscape opened up into a massive valley, where a buffalo herd thousands strong could be seen roaming the plain.

Our first major stop was part of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. The top layer of rock on this large canyon looks like wood paneling on a fence and was made by rapidly cooling lava. We followed the river up to the brink of the upper falls, where we also got out and walked down a few steps to the overlook of the falls, which narrow before falling off into the canyon below. We got an ornament and some ice cream, then kept on moving.

Of course, with any National Park, there are hordes of idiots willing to take themselves and their small children within mere yards of a buffalo, despite every sign in the park warning against such behavior. The beasts moved slow but steady with their young.

Eventually we came across stopped traffic, for a small herd was crossing the road. The traffic became so gnarled due to the aforementioned idiots getting out—including the drivers—while their car was still parked on the road. The small gap in the herd's progress—one that would have otherwise allowed traffic to flow normally for at least fifteen seconds—did not alleviate the standstill due to these folks.

Our frustration turned to terror when the rest of the herd came along and wanted to get past. A large male stared down at our car like we were a competitor and snorted at us. One move on his part could have send the rest of the herd—a not insignificant number—toward the line of vehicles from which we had no escape.

Eventually, he settled down and began walking slowly through. The herd followed him in front of and behind the car.

The rolling hills in Yellowstone were not the short rolling hills of North Carolina, but were rather long and subdued, and strewn with rocks that distance obscured into creature-shaped masses that fooled us on a number of occasions.

The bison were about the only creatures of any abundance that could be found in the park borders. After seeing thousands just in the past hour, we couldn't understand the long strips of cars that would line up just so one of their passengers could snap a picture of a single beast.

We worked our way down to the southeast part of the park. Now fully on top of the volcanic caldera that fuels the geysers, we saw beautiful Yellowstone Lake. With the mountains in the distance, the lake was one of the most beautiful things that we saw in the park. At this point, tourists started to fill in to the point where traffic was backed up around a sharp curve because there was a moose on the side of the road near the lake and the guy driving the RV up ahead just had to stop on the road to properly see it.

This moose didn't disappoint. Two years and two days after my dad made the mecca around Grand Teton to find moose (only to find mangy specimens), this moose looked sleek and refined. With an unblemished new spring coat on a lean body, I called him the "GQ moose" for his impeccable moose stylings.

Around this time, we passed Mud Volcano and Sulfur Cauldron, two areas packed with what I can only assume to be noseless tourists. These locales smelled like a skunk family ran an oil refinery that burned hunks of 300-year-old Limburger cheese.

I would have enjoyed looking at these things, but all I wanted to do was hang onto the little lunch I had.

The single most interesting thing about Yellowstone was not its cliffs, canyons, or critters. It was, for us, in a "mudpot," a kind of hot spring. Its surface, instead of being hot water, is a thick and muddy mush that boils and burps out sulfuric steam. I could tell that my dad was hungry at this point, because he kept mentioning how delicious the acidic puddle looked and in fact went so far as to compare it favorably to nougat.

We circled around to the south side of the drive, where we got off to see Old Faithful. Unfortunately, at the beginning of the tourist season, the powers that be decided to block at least half the parking lots in this area, and with a visitor center and a number of lodges and gift shops all vying for attention at the park's most famous attraction, the traffic was horrendous and finding a parking spot almost impossible.

Old Faithful is the apex of a small hill of tan rock. Even when not spewing, its surface constantly gives off the trademark Yellowstone stinky steam. At a good distance from the geyser is a boardwalk that features two rows of benches. These filled up almost immediately after the previous eruption by tourists who wanted good seats and didn't mind either the boredom or dreadful sunburn.

We got there not too long after the last eruption and had many minutes to kill inside, which we did as best we could with the limited exhibits in the visitor center. Eventually we decided that we might as well go back outside, only to stay in the back under the shade and beeline to the car after it goes off.

But while Old Faithful may be faithful, it's not on a timer. The park service can get it to plus or minus ten minutes in either direction from their stated time with immense accuracy, but there are aberrations and there's no way to accurately predict it. As a result, we knew that we might be standing around looking at a steam vent for perhaps twenty minutes before it did anything.

A few minutes before the predicted 2:18 eruption, things started to happen. Steam increased and water rushed up ... only for there to be a few gallons in total. This happened a few more times to the increasing frustration of the crowd until, about 2:20, one of the false starts turned into a majestic 160-foot tower of water, which lasted at its full height for a very short time. Most of its eruption was spent spewing water and steam at less than half of this full height.

We got to our car amidst the crowd. Our expected lead time evaporated when other enterprising tourists began leaving after Old Faithful stopped erupting at full height. We barely escaped the place.

On the way up and out of the park, we passed a number of stark and steaming fields with rampant geyser activity. They didn't smell quite as bad as the other ones we'd passed, but by this point they were simply overrun with vehicles of all kinds. After my dad nearly got trapped letting my mom and me out to see the moose, we weren't going to stop at anything that we could easily see from the road.

We made it out of Yellowstone and through the town of West Yellowstone, Montana (which my dad consistently called "West Jefferson"). Soon we were in Idaho, and not too long after the two-lane highway turned into four lanes. Not long after we found ourselves in Idaho Falls and to our hotel at exactly 5:00.

Already a 13-hour day, we were exhausted and settled for eating in the hotel. (None of us wanted to drive and we were sick of seeing any people we didn't have to.) I got a blue cheese bacon burger, which was somewhat dry but made up for by the extra vegetables. My dad got a New York strip that he seemed to enjoy despite the fat he had to cut away. My mom got a massive salad; I don't know what all was on it but I think there was tomato, avocado, and chicken. (I would ask her but as of the time of this writing she's already asleep.)

Tomorrow: we revisit Craters of the Moon National Park. There are caves we didn't complete two years ago, and this time around we brought functional flashlights.